Tomorrow's Child
by rikuboo
Summary: It is ironic and hysterical that while she is talking about his death, Ritsuka only wishes he could reach out and apologise from the bottom of his heart, to give her back the life she so desperately needs.


**Disclaimer:** Loveless belongs to Yun Kouga. I claim no rights and am not making any profit through this.

**Pairing:** None

**Warning:** Horror, blood, child abuse, minor cussing

**Summary:** Ritsuka doesn't think he is going to die. But he isn't sure.

_Revised: 22/12/09_

* * *

**Tomorrow's Child**

* * *

The thing is this: how do you know what death feels like?

Like everyone else, he doesn't know the details.

A slight twist and he thinks that, while numb with pain, his neck could not broken because surely death means you can't move any more. He can't be sure that he isn't bleeding inside, though. That's hard to feel, although he can imagine it is collecting in his chest, labouring his breathing and tainting his senses, a pool of wet heat that is draining from every finger and toe and gathering at his middle, building in pressure more and more as though it is getting ready to explode. The taste and smell seems to be everywhere too, staining every nook and cranny of his nails and gums and mouth, and it seems to colour his vision, painting the walls crimson and the stairs a hideous magenta. He can only think

_Is this hell?_

of whether she has finally won, of whether this will finally be it.

The usual silence, as unwelcome as ever, settles itself in the air. It is thick, bordering on suffocation. So much so that, for a moment, Ritsuka has to wonder whether anything has happened at all - shouldn't there be more than this? The television always says so. Then, shouldn't there be the urge to cry, to scream, to laugh?

Well, maybe he just can't hear it gurgling out of his throat.

Blinking, he looks at a tiny-bodied spider on the ceiling, its web clinging in the space where wall meets coving above the kitchen door. He stares at it, wondering whether maybe he could hide too, surrounding himself in comfort and a new life. Maybe

_remember, you can always hide in my room_

he should have thought of that earlier.

Then his mouth is watering as the smell of cooked burgers re-attracts his senses. Something that must be hunger growls in his stomach, although he supposes it could be something else entirely. He swallows, grimaces, and tastes blood.

Everything aches and feels twisted. Ritsuka is only just aware of it, which he thinks is odd as surely death hurts beyond and after suddenly, too. But he has to consider that maybe it means he _is_ alive, for now.

That's good, isn't it.

Something wet is trickling into the dip of his left eye, catching on eye-lashes and curving over his cheek and towards his lips. If Ritsuka strains his tongue, he could catch a taste of that. Not that he will, because he has done that too often.

Pain hits _everywhere_ and he hisses through clenched teeth.

Ritsuka doesn't try to move because he isn't sure he can. He just concentrates on trying to breathe, which is proving difficult. Eventually he does attempt to tilt his head a little, because urges and children go hand in hand, and in doing so he spies her standing there at the top of the stairs, gazing down, almost as still as he is. Her face is no paler than usual, her eyes no darker, but there is something in her stance that emanates laughter.

He wishes that one day he might understand the joke. It must be an adult thing.

"What are you looking at?" she whispers. One hand clutches at the blouse she wears, wringing the cloth between her breasts, wrinkling the fabric and staining it with red splodges that are not his blood. The other hand - spindly, pale and skeletal - rests on the banister, as though she is contemplating whether to come down or not.

He tries to speak. Manages no more than the first syllable, "Moth-" before his throat closes and he coughs on blood.

She hisses, "_Shut up_. Don't…" Her voice changes, becomes pleading, gentle, eyes softening in a way that he has long forgotten but long desired. "Look. You just - die now, okay? Don't make a fuss. Be… be strong and brave about it."

Ritsuka is swiftly terrified and would cry if he didn't think he already was. This has been going on for months, her consistent desire to hurt him and to punish him. Bruises and scars, both visible and not, cover his body and mind like a blanket of snow. They melt away eventually, but later return harsher.

It is his fault, really. He should have known she would act again. It has been so long since her last attempt. And of course she would do it tonight, when he is alone and easy to manipulate without the likes of –

"D-Don't be afraid of it or anything," she says. Her voice is softer than his breathing, yet sharper than the pain in his back, a violent melody for his ears only. "I… I'd think it would be lovely, to be quiet forever. I… You like it that way, don't you? Nice and quiet and - and peaceful?"

She starts to descend the stairs, slow, taking each step as though it is her first time. She is also barefoot. "I-I didn't want to do this, at first. It couldn't be _right_ - to do this to you. But - but then I thought that it would be good… For you, a-and for _all_ of us. I mean, things haven't been right lately, have they? Maybe, _without you_, everything will be right again… Yes, I'm sure of it." She smiles, hand fisted over her heart. "It makes sense, doesn't it? Doesn't it, Ritsuka?"

It is ironic and hysterical that while she is talking about his death, Ritsuka only wishes he could reach out and apologise from the bottom of his heart, to give her back the life she so desperately needs. It is his fault she is like this, after all; his fault, his fault, always his fault. She was never this wrong, this damaged, this demonic before.

Instead of completing the descent, she stops at the middle and sits on the fifth step, hand still on the banister. She stares down, smiling hesitantly. He blinks at her, coughs and splutters blood again.

_Why won't you help me?_

The spider has gone from view.

"I do love you," her voice is like the winter breeze, barely there, yet colder than ice. It hurts. "I _did_… But you shouldn't have changed. I don't understand why you thought you should."

She is talking to herself more than to him. He can't respond anyway. His head has decided to reel, and he thinks he has bitten his tongue in half. But just because he can't speak doesn't mean she isn't being answered. If she hasn't taken her medicine, then she is answering for herself. There is nothing he could say that she would actually hear, when in such a state.

"And because I loved you, I will stay and watch," she nods, staring at the same cobweb. "I'll wait with you."

Ritsuka doesn't think he is going to die. He can't be sure though. His neck isn't broken; at least not to such an extent, because he'd already be dead; although he can't be sure that he isn't bleeding inside. He can almost feel it collecting in his chest, labouring his breathing and tainting his senses, a pool of wet heat that is draining from every finger and toe and gathering there in his middle, as though ready to _explode_.

He doesn't think he is going to die. He can't be sure though. Shouldn't it be more life-flashing before-his-eyes and a light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel?

It would be appropriate to be more afraid, but he isn't.

* * *

He looked: 18:17pm. There was nothing unusual about that. Nor in the way she called him, or in the smell wafting from downstairs. He didn't think to be anything but hungry. So he propped his book face-down against his pillow, crossed the room, padded down the hall barefoot - snow was falling outside; not heavy, but it would settle - and made to descend the stairs, stomach growling in delight.

He didn't think to be suspicious or afraid because it was his home.

A sudden pressure approached from behind - hands pressing against the rise of his shoulder blades, _**pushing**_ - and the world _jerked_ the wrong way.

Ritsuka immediately knew why.

But he couldn't see anything other than a blur. He only felt his toe catching on the edge of the topmost stair, cracking and surely breaking, his shoulder colliding with another stair, his head smacking against the wall, wrist crushed beneath his side, ankle thwacking against the banister. And in a flurry he was tumbling, tumbling down and down and down into abyss and … _where am I going?_

Then, suddenly the world made sense again. Nothing was moving, yet everything was still spinning above. A moment had never been so silent.

He knew it was her, his mother, as soon as he began to fall, as soon as his toe broke and his shoulder dislocated and his head concussed and his wrist crushed and his ankle sprained. And because he should have known sooner

_never turn your back on her, Ritsuka, always be on guard when you're alone. never forget that_

he thought that maybe he deserved the feel of her hands pressing against the rise of each shoulder blade, pushing, and the pain that came with every tumble, every twist, every breath.

* * *

The front door opens.

Tilting his head the other way, which results in the wickedest throb of pain, Ritsuka sees a young man staring at the scene with the widest, most dangerous eyes he has ever known.

He is late again. Ritsuka is just glad he is earlier than usual.

His brother: Seimei.

The wind outside enters the house, disturbs the coat his brother wears and unsettles tiny flecks of snow caught in the fur-lining. They fall to the carpet and instantly melt. Ritsuka's tail thumps lazily, ears twitching. His mother stills like a startled doe, and seems to stare at them both at the same time.

The door slams and Seimei is by Ritsuka's side, muttering curses under his breath. Their eyes meet and Ritsuka tries to smile a little. The pain pulls the curve of his mouth into a grimace instead.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Seimei presses a cool hand to Ritsuka's forehead. "Ritsuka, can you hear me?"

He blinks because he can't manage a nod. But that's silly, because he could move his head before. Or is he elsewhere, able to look down on everything from a different angle?

"He isn't making a fuss," their mother pipes from the stairs. The knuckles of the hand clutching her blouse are white. "He's doing really well…"

A flash of anger makes Seimei's eyes blaze, "Mother, get to bed."

"But… I said I'd stay…"

"Go to bed and lock the door," he orders, voice low. He doesn't look at her. "Take your medicine."

As Ritsuka closes his eyes, sighs in something akin to relief, he is vaguely aware that she does as asked, passing them both at the bottom of the stairs and floating over to her room as quiet and ominous as a ghost. And Seimei is there above him, speaking something or another

_come on, Ritsuka, stay awake, you're okay, you can't do this __yet__, this wasn't meant to happen __now_

but he doesn't catch a word. The pain decides to take its toll and

_Is this heaven? Or hell?_

everything goes black.

Ritsuka thinks that maybe he _is_ going to die, then. But … he can't be sure. Never has he felt more like a child.


End file.
